


You Seem So Free

by High-Seas-Swan (FangLang), maxbegone



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Future Fic, Gardening, Husbands, Post-Canon, Post-Series, Summer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:09:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25806406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FangLang/pseuds/High-Seas-Swan, https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxbegone/pseuds/maxbegone
Summary: Patrick picks up the watering can and strides across the lawn. “Wow, you got every single leaf and dust particle in there, huh?”“Funny,” he deadpans. David raises a hand and Patrick wordlessly helps him to his feet. “Now what?”“I was thinking about running inside, grabbing some lemonade,” Patrick starts, his voice dropping seductively. “And then maybe…watching you water the rest of the vegetables like you promised me.”David throws his head back with a groan. “But it’s so hot!”
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose
Comments: 14
Kudos: 127





	You Seem So Free

**Author's Note:**

  * For [High-Seas-Swan (FangLang)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FangLang/gifts).



> Months ago, say in late April/early May, Lana ( [@high-seas-swan](high-seas-swan.tumblr.com) ) and I started coming up with these summertime headcanons for David and Patrick. We joked, saying "If we can't have a traditional backyard summer, then the least we can do is write about it!" There are a bunch more in a shared document that I hope will one day come to fruition.
> 
> What was initially titled "The Sprinkler Headcanon" turned into this.
> 
> So Lana, several months later and well-into August, this is for you.
> 
> \--
> 
> Title from Free by Francesca Blanchard

It’s way too fucking hot. The humidity is nauseating; it’s thick enough that you could cut the air with a knife, and Patrick’s tee is clinging uncomfortably to his body.

He looks across the way at David, who’s on his knees by the flowerbeds meticulously picking out unwanted weeds and twigs. Patrick smiles at his husband’s back; he’s wearing shorts and the sleeves of his t-shirt are rolled up enough to show off his upper arms which, frankly, Patrick cannot get enough of.

David sits back on his heels, a huff escaping him. “Hey, I think we’re good over here,” he calls.

Patrick picks up the watering can and strides across the lawn. “Wow, you got every single leaf and dust particle in there, huh?”

“Funny,” he deadpans. David raises a hand and Patrick wordlessly helps him to his feet. “Now what?”

“I was thinking about running inside, grabbing some lemonade,” Patrick starts, his voice dropping seductively. “And then maybe…watching you water the rest of the vegetables like you promised me.”

David throws his head back with a groan. “But it’s so hot!”

“That’s why I’m getting us lemonade!” He passes the watering can to David, who’s scowling, and kisses his cheek. “I'll be out in a second.”

“Put on more sunscreen,” David calls after him, “I don’t want to hear you complaining about getting burnt again.”

“Yes, sir.” 

The contrast in temperature between their kitchen and the backyard makes Patrick want to linger inside longer than he intended, but he knows that if he does, David will just come looking for him and refuse to go back outside again.

He returns to the heat, setting two glasses already soaked in condensation down on their iron patio table. David’s standing over by their raised gardening pots watering the basil and mint and peppers.

Granted, Patrick was initially the one who proposed the idea when they first moved into their cottage, saying that they had enough room in the yard to have more than just a few terra-cotta pots on a picnic table. From there, David ran with the idea. 

They bought several books on the matter and, outside of the store, this had been their new pride and joy. They — correction, Patrick — built multiple five-foot by three-foot wooden slats, filled them with topsoil, and began planting the second they were able. 

David spent months doing research into starting a garden, reading up on which produce grows best during each season and when the best time to plant them was. David looked into the best soil to use, when to water and how often. 

Patrick looks out at their work-in-progress oasis of a backyard and remembers David’s excitement, how badly he wanted to grill home-grown zucchini on their dinky charcoal barbecue and serve it with tomatoes, one of Heather’s cheeses, and an excellent balsamic reduction they had started selling.

Their backyard had quickly become a passion project for them both, setting up the patio with a beautiful set of tables and chairs, a hammock secured between two tall oaks, and flowers lining the fences, circling trees. When they had anyone over — their families, Stevie, friends, vendors — David would say “You need to see what we’ve done with the yard,” and guide them right past everything else. 

The whole thing felt communal and lovely and Patrick was just as excited about it as David. 

Patrick shakes himself back to the present, walking over to where the hose lays forgotten on the grass nearly ten feet from his husband. He smirks to himself, picking it up and directing the spray at his husband, giving the nozzle a good squeeze.

David yelps — he yelps — as the cold water hits his back.

“Patrick!”  
“Sorry, I was aiming for the hydrangeas,” he replies as innocently as possible, but he fails to hide his laughter.

“The fucking hydrangeas are on the other side of the yard!” He’s gesturing wildly to a cluster of whitish-blue petals circling one of their trees. “I know your aim isn’t that bad!” 

Patrick tightens his smirk, his eyes wide, and holds the hose up just a little higher.

“Don’t you dare!” 

He doesn’t break eye contact as another stream of water hits David. He’s sputtering, the hose water dripping from his face as he stares back at Patrick with a glint in his eye. The front of his hair is sticking flat against his forehead.

“You can’t tell me that didn’t cool you off a little!” 

David, whose grip is still tight on the metal watering can, takes two steps forward. His lips have quirked-up slyly, and the glint in his eye has only grown more mischievous. Patrick knows that look all too well.

So he bolts.

Patrick abandons the hose and runs. He’s fast, but David’s legs are long and he can sprint when he wants to, even if it isn’t graceful. He makes it about twenty feet before a cold rush of water is coming down from over his head. A breathy, high-pitched gasp escapes him on impact.

There’s an amalgamation of laughter from them both as David grabs for Patrick, the watering can landing somewhere on the ground with a hollow thunk. However, they both manage to slip on the still-slick grass from the earlier sprinklers and fall to the ground.

Patrick rolls onto his back beside David, out of breath and still heaving with laughter as he wipes the water from his eyes.

“You know, the David Rose of four years ago would not be laying on the ground right now,” David says between breaths. “Hell, the David Rose of four years ago wouldn’t even sit on the motel beds without a towel as a barrier layer.” 

Patrick tilts his head to look at him, admiring that little bit of growth. David has a big, dopey smile on his face, the kind where his dimples are on display and his eyes crinkling at the corners. His limbs are splayed out starfish-like, his white shirt soaked-through and covered in dirt, his hair a complete curling mess. David’s chin is angled up in a way that the sun catches on his face and casts little shadows under his eyelashes.

This is a carefree version of David Rose and Patrick cannot get enough of him. 

It hits him then that he is in fact fulfilling his promise — he’s making David happy here in their home. Patrick, for a second, is a little overcome at the thought, so he climbs on top of David and kisses him.

The kiss tastes stale and metallic from the hose water, but it’s still a wonderfully dizzying kiss. 

There’s a sudden creaking from somewhere closer to the house and they both realize a second too late that the sprinklers go off.

David breaks the kiss. “Patrick! Make it stop!”

“That’s zone four!” He chuckles as David pushes Patrick off of him and makes a run for the house.

“Why the fuck is there a zone four?”

Patrick grabs David’s arm as he catches up with him by the patio, spinning around and kissing him again. He holds him still in the line of the sprinklers, and as much as David tries to wriggle from Patrick’s grasp, he sinks into it.

“I probably look like a drowned dog,” David eventually says, inching closer to the back door. “I need a towel.”

“I think you look lovely.” Patrick runs a hand through David’s soaked hair, letting it twist around his fingers. “Go sit,” he pushes him toward the loungers, “I’ll go grab them.”

When Patrick comes back out again, David is sitting with his legs out and head back, a glass of lemonade in-hand. Patrick drinks in the image of his husband for a long moment before going over and dropping a towel on his face.

David drags the towel upward, running it back and forth over his head and leaving it to drape there. He keeps his eyes closed and asks, “Did you tell Stevie to come over tonight?”

Patrick’s phone is inside charging, so he has no idea if Stevie answered him, but he nods. “I told her to come when she gets out of work.”

A hum comes from his left. “Good, can’t wait.” 

Some time passes quietly, just the two of them and the sound of hissing sprinklers not too far away.

“Hey.”

Patrick lolls his head toward him, squinting in the sunlight to look at him sidelong. David has the smallest, most sincere smile on his lips as he pulls the towel down into his lap. 

“I’m really happy here,” he finally says, softly, and that rush of emotion comes back to Patrick. 

He swallows the lump in his throat, failing not to choke up. It’s like David was reading his mind, or he just really knows his husband. Patrick reaches his hand out for David’s and clasps them together in the space between their chairs. He gives it a gentle squeeze and manages to whisper, “Me, too.” 

Less than a year ago, when he stood in front of it for the first time, Patrick imagined this house with David, making it home. And here they are, now, in the dead of summer and it’s very real. It’s everything Patrick could ask for and more. It’s pure bliss.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! You can find me [@maxbegone](maxbegone.tumblr.com) on tumblr! 
> 
> If you have some time, check out [Waiting on the Day](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25577383/chapters/62071960) that Lana wrote for the SC Sportsfest!


End file.
